Odd Art
by theflashisgone
Summary: The Doctor finds some very dangerous looking art for sale in a gallery.


The Doctor was travelling alone again after Martha had elected to stay with her family. He decided to hang around London for a bit and see if anything interesting happened, preferably with a lot of running, as he hadn't gotten much exercise during the last year.

Wandering down the street, the Doctor passed a small art gallery that had some rather odd metal sculptures on display. He wandered in to have a closer look. If he didn't know better, he would have said that they resembled dalek parts and weapons, but each one was a single piece of metal rather than made of the actual materials.

Glancing around to see if anyone was looking and taking out his screwdriver, the Doctor scanned a piece that bore a disturbing resemblance to a dalek beam distributor. Even more disturbing was the fact that its resonance indicated that the metal was just a coating, and the object actually _was_ a gunstick. He spotted an employee hurrying over, presumably to stop him pointing his potentially high-tech art-theft device at a valuable piece of art.

"S'cuse me," he addressed her before she could ask him to leave, "D'you know what these are supposed to be? They're a bit, well, odd. Where did they come from?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "I can give you the information that come with each piece, if you're interested in making a purchase, although," she paused to examine his appearance, "I rather doubt you'd be able to afford any of this particular artist's original works."

"Oi! I could be a rich collector for all you know!" the Doctor started to protest, slightly too-small jacket and scruffy trainers notwithstanding.

The woman continued over his complaints, "Even if you _were_ interested in buying some of his work, we can give you very little information about the artist, as one of the conditions of our contract with him is that we not distribute his information."

"Really," the Doctor did some of his own eyebrow-raising. "Even if I were to tell you that I want to commission a piece from him?"

The woman hesitated. While the artist insisted on anonymity, he might appreciate a commission, and might send more of his work to the gallery as a result. And if the somewhat eccentric-looking potential customer really did have the sort of money that one needs to commission sculptures, it was in her best interests to make up for being rude to him. "I can't guarantee that he'll get in touch with you, but if you leave me your contact information, I'll make sure he gets it."

"Brilliant! I'm John Smith. Actually, here, I'll write it down for you." He dug a scrap of paper out of his pocket and scribbled down the name, along with the number of the mobile that Martha had given him.

"I'll be sure to pass it along," the woman smiled, hoping leave him with a good impression, before heading for the gallery's office to enter Mr. Smith's information into the computer.

The next day, the Doctor's phone rang. "Hello?" he answered, puzzled because he didn't recognize the number. He had gotten wrapped up in a long game of Scrabble against the TARDIS the night before, and had forgotten about giving the art gallery his number.

"Hello, is this Mr. John Smith? My name is Mark. I'm calling on behalf of my employer, who was told you were interested in commissioning a sculpture." The voice on the other end was a man, but not someone the Doctor recognized.

"Oh, right, sorry! I'd forgotten about that," the Doctor sat up to pay attention properly, "Although I must say, I was rather hoping to speak with the artist himself. Don't suppose you could put me through, could you?"

"I'm sorry," Mark replied, "But my employer prefers to stay completely anonymous to the people who purchase his art, to the point that he refuses to use a name in connection with it. He employs me to be his liaison with the public, so I'll be handling the details of working out what you want and arranging delivery and payment."

The Doctor, realizing that he was not going to have an easy time actually reaching the artist, set the TARDIS to trace the phone call. "Oh, of course," he said reassuringly, "I've dealt with eccentric artists before. Not going to deprive them of their privacy. Tell you what. I'm actually not entirely sure what I want, but if I could phone you back at this number, I'll get in touch with you when I've got a better idea of it. How does that work?"

"That's fine. Just phone back and let me know when you have a better idea what you're looking for. Goodbye." Mark rang off, seeming pleased that the Doctor didn't question him further.

The TARDIS had found where Mark's phone was located, and then found the address of whoever paid the phone bills. "Right," the Doctor said to himself, or maybe to the TARDIS, "Now I know where to find you, I think I ought to pay you a little visit."

The TARDIS appeared in front of a warehouse next to the Thames. The Doctor tried the nearest door and, finding it locked, got out his screwdriver and opened it. The door let into a big room, at the center of which were several large, glass tanks of clear liquid, with several small objects suspended in them by wires. The air felt choking and smelled like lye. As the Doctor approached the tank, he suddenly found himself face-to-eyestalk with a dalek. He jumped back, then, realizing that the dalek wasn't immediately trying to kill him, paused to take in its appearance. The dalek had clearly seen better days. It was badly battered.

"IDENTIFY YOURSELF," the dalek interrupted the Doctor's puzzling over it.

"Me? I'm the Doctor." He was taken aback, as the creature ought to recognize him. Perhaps it had been damaged to the point that it couldn't automatically tell who he was? He decided to try and ask it what had happened to it.

"YOU ARE THE ENEMY OF THE DALEKS. YOU MAY NOT HAVE ANY OF MY ART."

The Doctor was stunned. "Hang on, _art_? Since when do daleks have _art_?"

The dalek took a moment to respond. "YOU WILL NOT ATTEMPT TO TAKE MY ART?"

"No, but what _happened_ to you, that you've become an artist?" The Doctor realized that the dalek must have been seriously damaged, to the point that its brain had changed its programming.

"QUERY DOES NOT COMPUTE"

"Oh, alright, let's start with how you got here. How did you end up in this time and location?"

"MY CLUSTER USED AN EMERGENCY TEMPORAL SHIFT TO ESCAPE BEING SUCKED INTO THE VOID. THE VOID PUT EXCESSIVE AMOUNTS OF STRESS ON OUR STYSTEMS AND THE TEMPORAL SHIFT DAMAGED US. I AM THE ONLY ONE OF MY CLUSTER TO HAVE SURVIVED IT."

"Do the parts you coated in metal come from the other daleks?"

"CORRECT."

"But why? What led you to start coating their pieces and selling them as art?"

"WHEN WE APPEARED HERE, ONE OF US WAS IN ONE OF THE VESSELS OF LIQUID. HE WAS COVERED IN A METAL OF EXTERNAL ORIGIN. SCANNING REVEALED THAT THE VESSEL CONTAINED ZINC AND SODIUM HYDROXIDE AND THAT THE ENERGY OF THE TEMPORAL SHIFT HAD CAUSED THE ZINC TO PRECIPITATE ON HIS CASING. HE WAS SUPERIOR WITH THE COATING AND MY PROGRAMMING DICTATES THAT ALL THINGS DALEK MUST BE MADE AS SUPERIOR AS POSSIBLE." So saying, the dalek turned away from the Doctor and approached one of the tanks. Charging his gunstick, the dalek aimed at the tank, which contained pieces from another dalek's casing.

"ELECTROPLATE!" it announced, and fired, leaving some nicely zinc-coated dalek parts.


End file.
